by John Burke
‘But who would have known you were there? I mean, known who you were? If someone else was going to commit a murder, knowing all along that you’d be likely to get the blame, how did they know you were sitting there so conveniently?’
‘Hell, don’t you think I’d like to know? But that Queenie suspected something. And that Mrs Chisholm who runs the cottages came back from somewhere and gave us a funny look when we opened our door to look out.’ He wriggled in his seat. ‘Look, you’ll have to stop for a minute.’
‘Thinking of listening to what I say, and turning back?’
‘Not sodding likely. I’m bursting for a pee.’
Lesley laughed as she slowed on to the ragged verge of the road.
‘Nice little cluster of bushes over there.’
‘Don’t get smart. I’m doing it right here where I can keep an eye on you. Don’t try anything funny.’
She felt oddly relaxed. It was all too pathetic. Her only danger was that he might fire the gun out of sheer nervousness, or just because his finger was unsteady. He looked ridiculous as he circled the bonnet of the car, pointing the gun at her, and then beginning to unbutton his flies, fumbling for his penis.
She could close both the doors with a flick of a switch, and there’d be no way he could get back in. But he might lose control and fire at her through the window.
Quietly she opened her door a fraction of an inch.
He was trying to pee while still keeping his gaze on her and the gun trained on her. He was standing at such an awkward angle that he began to dribble down his trouser leg. With a muttered curse he tried to edge a few inches to the right, and his foot began to slide over a coating of mud. He slipped, flailed out with one hand, and dropped the gun.
Lesley was out of the car, hurling herself at him. She wrenched his arm behind his back. Urine sprayed across her wrist, and then she was pushing him face down to the ground. She gave his arm a violent tweak that made him howl.
‘If you make any move to get away, I’ll break your arm. And then your leg, just to make sure.’
She groped for the gun, and released him.
‘You stupid bitch.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘As I told you, the police aren’t stupid.’
‘Police? You’re never a copper.’
‘In a recent incarnation, that’s just what I was.’
‘Oh, shit.’
She felt quite sorry for him as she steered him towards the car and into the front passenger seat.
‘You know how to use a car-phone, I’m sure. Must have stolen plenty of them in your time, right? So ring for an ambulance.’
‘And what if I don’t?’
‘I know just where to shoot you in the knee to cause the most discomfort.’
‘Police brutality never goes down well in court.’
‘Self defence,’ said Lesley. ‘Now do as I say.’
‘I can’t tell them exactly where we are.’
She smiled sympathetically. ‘I never did think you had much idea where we were going. Just running for the sake of it. All right. You know where Martine is, because you were doing the driving. And I’d estimate you came off the road about fifteen miles south-east of Balmuir, on the Moniaive road. And when you’ve done that, you can ring the police and tell them that we’re twelve miles further on, down the first right turning, with a signpost nobody can read.’
‘You’re not thinking of driving us back yourself?’
His weaselly cunning was too transparent. ‘No,’ said Lesley. ‘I’m not going to risk an undignified scuffle in the car. We wait here until the cavalry arrives. And to pass the time, you can tell me the rest of your fairy story.’
Defeated, he slumped into the seat, made the ambulance call, and then went on with the plaintive whine of a deeply wronged man. She had heard it so often from villains who were as guilty as hell but still resented being found out.
‘For a little while we thought we’d sit tight and go on being Mr and Mrs Maxwell. We were innocent, so why shouldn’t we sit it out? But then Martine said she thought . . . well, she couldn’t be sure, but . . . look, you want to start asking questions about that Queenie Chisholm.’
‘Queenie?’
‘Martine thought she’d been recognized. Thought Queenie remembered her. So we’d better get out of there after all.’
Queenie had known who they were, and what their probable plans were? Nick had said how hard it was to imagine Queenie committing a murder. Fey and unpredictable she might be, but she would never have had the strength to lay Brunner low.
But she could have told somebody else.
‘It wasn’t worth the risk, hanging around there,’ said Waterman. ‘We just had to get out.’
‘Why didn’t you stay, and tell the police just what you’re telling me? Tell them exactly what you’d found? Show them where the body had been, and how you had dragged it up the slope?’
‘And who’d believe us? I’d told everyone I was going to get Brunner. And I meant it. But somebody else got there first.’
‘So why not give yourself up and tell them that? The police aren’t stupid.’
‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’ He tried a moment of defiance. ‘Oh, not too stupid to cover up, I’ll give you that. Cover up having lost track of me. Shove me inside, fill in the right forms, case closed, and dash off to the next fit-up before anyone noses in too deeply.’
The rescue party arrived in a surprisingly short time, and in impressive force. Three armed men, padded with body armour and followed by a dog handler with a large Alsatian, sprang out of a white van liberally decorated with the red, yellow and electric blue of the Kyle and Carrick Constabulary, and stamped towards the Laguna.
‘Right, Waterman. Come on out with your hands up. Stay quite still, Lady Torrance, and you’ll be perfectly safe.’
Waterman slid out of the car, with one backward glance. ‘Lady Torrance? Christ, whoever heard of a copper being a lady?’
*
For the twentieth or thirtieth time, Nick looked at his watch. How much longer before something happened; somebody appeared? He heaved himself up the slanting side of the Escort and into the driver’s seat, taking care not to jar against Martine’s sprawled right leg and hip.
She eased herself into a more comfortable position. ‘Look, if you want to try and get in touch with someone, try to stop him before your wife —’
‘I’m not worried about my wife.’ Nick was trying to convince himself as much as Martine. ‘I think she can cope when the moment presents itself.’
‘Yes. I don’t think he’s capable of killing anyone any more. Not any more.’ She sounded almost regretful that Lesley was in no real danger. ‘He’s past it. All the wind’s gone out of him. From the moment I felt we’d been spotted, all he wanted was to be well out of it. Only we left it a bit late. And after all that time inside, his driving wasn’t too good.’
‘On roads like these, anyone could come off. I was close to it myself, several times.’ Absurd, thought Nick, that he should be making soothing noises to her about the driving skills of her long-time villain of a husband. ‘Just a minute. When you said you’d been spotted, what did you mean? Who by?’
‘Queenie Chisholm. We saw her in the village, and the way she looked at me I thought perhaps . . . well, for a moment I wasn’t sure. But afterwards I just got the feeling that she could have recognized me.’
‘She did. But I gather she didn’t say anything right away.’
‘Whenever she said it, it was too risky for us to stay there. The murder was bound to be blamed on Ronnie.’
‘You still say he wasn’t guilty?’
‘He’s been guilty of plenty of things. But not of killing Chet.’
On the road above, an ambulance was drawing in to the side. Two paramedics came hurrying down the slope. One put his arm through the open window and gently touched Martine’s forehead while his colleague went round to the driver’s side. Nick wriggled out to make room for him.
Nick said: ‘You’ve heard from my wife, then?’
‘It was a man called Waterman who rang, sir. He told us about his wife here.’
‘Didn’t he say something about mine?’
‘Not that I know of, sir. We just got the message, and got here as fast as we could.’
They lifted Martine on to a stretcher, and carried her up the lumpy slope with a care and steadiness that would have earned the admiration of a fire-walker. As they reached the road, the Laguna pulled in behind the ambulance.
Nick bounded up the hill and threw his arms around her. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘I overpowered him,’ said Lesley modestly, ‘then made him ring the ambulance. And then I called the police to come and collect him. Purely routine.’
‘Overpowered him? Rough business? I thought you were an academic sort of policewoman. Dealing with art thefts and identification of assay marks, that sort of thing. Never suspected you of beating up suspects.’
‘Whatever you do afterwards, your basic training takes in a lot of unarmed combat and some nasty tricks of the trade.’
Martine on her stretcher was being lifted into the ambulance. She turned her head stiffly to gaze admiringly at Lesley. ‘He was good at getting other people to do that sort of thing for him. Wish I’d had your training.’
‘I’m to pick you up,’ said Lesley to her husband, ‘and drive us to Ayr. Or you can drive. You’ve had rather a long break doing damn-all.’
‘Why should we want to go to Ayr?’
‘McAdam wants a statement. Everything that happened and everything that was said.’
‘Into Ayr? Almost back where we started. And by that time . . . have to find a hotel in Ayr, I suppose.’
‘No,’ said Lesley. ‘I’ve phoned Anna Chisholm. For obvious reasons she has a few days vacant in one of her cottages for a short let this week.’
‘But we don’t want to go back there.’
‘As a matter of fact, we do,’ said Lesley. ‘Because I’m not satisfied. Too many things were overlooked. And I don’t believe Ronnie Waterman killed Chet Brunner.’
‘Oh, he’s been spinning you the story as well, has he? Like Martine.’
‘Yes. And I believe him. We’ve got a couple of days to spare before we go home. I won’t be happy till I’ve gone all over that ground again.’
‘In McAdam’s footsteps?’
‘Ahead of her this time, I hope.’
‘I’m sure she’ll love that.’
It was all crazy, thought Nick. What an end to a honeymoon. Started out as a love story, then became a murder story, and now it was sheer farce.
Chapter Thirteen
The phone call from Lesley Torrance, with its news about the capture of the Watermans and the urgent offer to take over the remaining days of their abruptly broken tenancy, had only just finished when the phone rang again. This time the caller was a girl whose voice was as strangulated as Mr Ritchie’s. She might have been taught this as a condition of employment in the Haining and Ritchie office.
‘Would that be Mrs Chisholm I’m speaking to? Mrs Anna Chisholm?’
‘It would,’ said Anna.
‘Then I’ll be putting you through to our Mr Ritchie.’ Now there was a reverent, throttled-down quality in the tone.
Ritchie’s attitude when he came on was quite changed since their last encounter. He tried to combine obsequiousness with pride in his own achievements, but she wondered why he should sound so fawning rather than cocky.
‘Well now, Mrs Chisholm. Ye’ll not be saying we haven’t been working hard in your interests. I’ve had a surprising number of enquiries for your cottages. But in the present circumstances, I’ve felt it my duty to ca’ canny — verra, verra careful indeed — in sieving them, if I may put it like that. We’d not be wanting some sensation-seeking undesirables, would we now?’
‘We would not. But at the moment I’m not sure that I —’
‘Regrettably we’ve had one cancellation for next week. Of course we shall insist on a cancellation charge. But ye’ll be glad to hear that I have personally chosen a substitute.’
‘So our recent misfortunes have not, as you predicted, led to a slump in trade?’ said Anna drily.
‘Och, Mrs Chisholm, we all make the wee mistake from time to time.’
She would never have expected him even to hint at such a possibility.
He went on: ‘And there’s a respectable couple who’d be happy to take over one of the cottages for what’s left of this week, and stay on for next week as well.’
‘Nothing doing, I’m afraid. Covenanter’s Cottage needs a thorough going-over, and I’ve just had a call from . . . well, from friends . . . who want to take Stables Cottage for a few days.’
‘Could ye be giving me the name of these friends, then, so I can keep our records straight?’
Meaning, she thought, that he wanted to make sure that the letter of their agreement was honoured and Haining and Ritchie would get their usual commission.
She said: ‘We’ll discuss it later, Mr Ritchie. When all the legal problems concerning the whole estate are clarified, I fancy we’ll have quite a lot to discuss.’
‘Aye, we will that.’ There was a pause, at the end of which he became as awed and deferential as the telephonist had been earlier. ‘Mr Haining is also wishing to have a word wi’ ye.’ It was clear that from the telephonist onwards there was a strict hierarchy, rising step by step to the senior partner.
‘Mrs Chisholm?’ It was a more confident and resonant voice than Ritchie’s.
‘Mr Haining.’ Anna tried to match his solemnity.
‘I am sorry to be telling you that there has been a rather displeasing turn of events. A delicate procedure. Very — hm — delicate. Strictly speaking, I ought not to be contacting you until proper legal formalities have been gone through. Matters of confirmation, you understand. All very regrettable. At this establishment we have not been used to dealing with — hm — people of a certain calibre. We ought not to have been put in this unethical position, but in the circumstances I thought it advisable to be having a word with you.’
Anna glanced at the kitchen clock, wondering how long it would be before Mr Haining considered it ethical to get to the point.
His voice sank half an octave. ‘As ye’ll no’ need telling, Mrs Chisholm, there are strict obligations set upon the legal representatives of a deceased client, and as such representatives of the late Mr Brunner —’
‘I didn’t know Mr Brunner had dealings with you. I’d have thought he kept his interests in London.’
‘The late Mr Brunner has lived in this region for some years now, and rightly considered it more practical to deal in certain personal matters with the most highly respected firm in the said region.’
Probably rather like having a separate drawing facility at a provincial branch of one’s bank, thought Anna; but she felt it was not a comparison Mr Haining would relish.
‘To be blunt,’ he said at last, ‘we drew up Mr Brunner’s most recent will for him, and it is lodged here with us. The executor he appointed was Mr Alec Chisholm, whom of course you know.’
‘My father-in-law.’
‘Ah, hm, yes,’ said Mr Haining mysteriously. ‘We may need to discuss that at a later stage, depending on one’s interpretation of . . . that is . . . Ah, well,’ he went on with a sudden burst of speed, ‘I have tried to telephone Mr Chisholm to warn him, but he does not appear to be on the premises.’
‘Probably gone down to the village,’ said Anna. Then she said: ‘Just a minute. What do you mean — ‘warn him’?’
‘We have had a visit from Mr Brunner’s wife — hm — widow, that is. Accompanied by a singularly aggressive person by the name of Hagan.’
>
Anna could not repress a grin at the thought of Tam Hagan swaggering into the chaste gloom of the Haining and Ritchie office.
‘I objected strongly to his presence,’ Mr Haining went on, ‘but Mrs Brunner seemed, for some reason not clear to me, to depend on him in her time of bereavement. They were both very aggressive, which I found quite deplorable in the circumstances. As the late Mr Brunner’s widow, Mrs Brunner appeared indecently eager to know the contents of his will. She demanded’ — outrage welled up — ‘demanded to be informed immediately when she could take over the estate.’
‘I imagine she was impatient,’ said Anna. ‘I can understand your concern, but I suppose she has plans to make, and needs to know her exact legal position before taking any steps. But what was that about warning Alec? She’s not going to chuck him out, is she?’
Mr Haining cleared his throat. It was an impressive performance, heralding some world-shattering proclamation. ‘Mrs Brunner’s exact position,’ he intoned, ‘is unfortunately less secure than she had hoped.’ His words began to sound more like a sermon, and Anna had a vision of him with a huge Bible opened on the lectern before him, preparing the final judgement of a vengeful deity. ‘She is to receive a stipulated sum but no part in the property of Balmuir Lodge or properties appertaining thereto. A further sum to be gifted to — hm — a trust for an annual film and television award for’ — Mr Haining allowed himself to sound faintly sceptical — ‘production innovations of outstanding artistry, to be known as the Brunner Bronze. And the estate itself, including Balmuir Lodge and, as I have said, all land and properties attaining to it, are bequeathed to yourself.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t . . . that is . . .’
‘To Mrs Anna Chisholm of Balmuir Mains — ‘as some recompense for the troubles inflicted on her by my son.’ That is the relevant wording.’
‘His son?’ Anna’s head was spinning. ‘Relevant? That doesn’t make any sense. I don’t remember any troubles from his son. Never even knew he had a son, in fact.’
‘That is, nevertheless, the exact phrasing, Mrs Chisholm. Which I may say I chose not to communicate to Mrs Brunner.’
